


Flying and Falling

by EmmyJay



Series: Ivory Ascending [10]
Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Assault, Brea's Making Friends With The Lower Classes, Dreamfasting, Escape Plans, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Genocide, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: A plan has been set.  But putting it in motion is proving more difficult than Seladon could have imagined.
Relationships: Brea & Seladon (Dark Crystal), Seladon/skekSo (Dark Crystal) (mentioned)
Series: Ivory Ascending [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528451
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shit's winding up to winding down. B:
> 
> On that note, erm...I have written a skekSo's POV piece for 'Ironstone'. But it is considerably more awful than anything else I've posted here (yes, including 'Silverling'). I'm wavering on whether or not to upload it, or just show it privately to the folks who express interest. Thoughts?

The Skeksis were not of Thra.

It had to be well into the night by now, yet Seladon lay awake, her mind spinning too wildly with all Brea had shared to sleep. Brea herself was wholly unconscious at her side, breaths tickling her neck. She had tucked herself tightly against the wall at first, in an attempt to make more room; yet in sleep she had shifted, and now she lay partially atop her Seladon one arm and leg slung across her body. It was not a comfortable position, but Seladon barely noticed; her attention was thoroughly focused on the ceiling above her, barely visible in the glow of the guttering candle, seeking the shape of the stones and supports between herself and all that lay beyond.

How many stars would she see, if the whole Castle were to disappear around her? She had never been one for watching the sky—not like Brea, who charted constellations in her journal; or Tavra, who had taken to the Sifan art of navigating by their shapes. To Seladon, the stars were merely a decoration in the night: pretty to look at, but overall unimportant, and certainly of no use in negotiating land tenancy agreements.

Now she reconsidered that belief, the latest of much from her old life she had come to question. For the Skeksis, the ones they knew as Lords of the Crystal, of Thra itself, had come to them from those stars. Or rather, the ones called "urSkeks" had, and begat the Skeksis later on. How many trine ago must that have been, to be so lost to memory? Had there even been Gelfling on Thra during that time?

 _'There was Aughra,'_ she thought, _'Aughra was there.'_ Aughra had known the truth all along, yet kept it to herself in exchange for gifts. A part of Seladon wanted to be angry with the witch, for lying and dreaming while the Skeksis laid waste to the Crystal, to Thra itself. But it was that same part which flinched at the memory of how easily she herself had been swayed; how quickly she too would have been bought, had the Emperor seen worth in her offer.

 _'Perhaps that was why she tried to warn me at Stone-In-The-Wood,'_ she considered mournfully. _'Perhaps she saw her own folly in mine, and wanted to spare me her mistakes.'_ Not that it had made any difference, in the end—she had not listened, and now Aughra was gone, any answers she might have given about the Skeksis (or the urSkeks, or the Mystics, or **anything** ) taken with her.

Thinking of Aughra reminded Seladon of another, and she lifted her head just enough to look down her body to the pair of creatures currently nestled in the gap between her body and Brea's. The second Threader looked asleep, but her Friend was turned toward her, tiny black eyes glittering as it watched her ruminate in silence.

"What of you?" she asked it, softly. "Do the Arathim remember when the Skeksis first came?"

The Threader rocked itself sideways, a movement not unlike a questioning tilt of one's head. At Seladon's side, Brea shifted, mumbling a half-formed question. Seladon turned just enough to press a kiss to her sister's brow, and stroked her hair.

"It's nothing," she reassured. "Go back to sleep."

Brea needed no further encouragement, slipping easily back into her dreams. And when Seladon did eventually join her, she dreamed of the Emperor crumbling into dust, a wretched shell left to suffer and decay.

It was a lovely dream.

\---

In the week that followed, Seladon slowly recovered vision in her right eye as the swelling died down, and the bruises yellowed and began to fade. Her nose began to mend, even if the line of it no longer felt straight to her touch; her ribs and shoulders stopped screaming every time she moved. Even her jaw felt better, though the loosened tooth had come out after a day or two, and she had slipped it under her empty bowl on the dinner tray without saying anything to Brea, letting it be taken away the next morning.

The first time water for washing was brought to them, Seladon had immediately dirtied it beyond further use simply scrubbing at Brea's face. When the Podlings arrived with dinner that night they had muttered over the bowl, looking between it and the two Gelfling in something like amazement. The next day, two additional basins were brought, and Seladon finally cleaned the remnants of blood from her front, and washed and combed both of their hair, fixing Brea's into simple braids. Brea in turn had offered to twist Seladon's hair into her old style, but Seladon had declined, stating that after two unum of having her hair loose, she had grown used to the feeling of it.

(She did not mention the Emperor's apparent fascination with her hair, or that any braids would likely be torn from her scalp in chunks when he raked his claws through them.)

The relief of simply being clean seemed to revitalise Brea, her old oddities and untamable urge to learn resurfacing. When the Podlings next brought their morning meal, she had jumped up at their arrival, pointing at the contents of their rickety cart.

" _Doruchak_ ," she said, prompting the lot of them to step back in surprie. "That means porridge, doesn't it? _Doruchak_?"

There was some chatter amongst the Podlings, the word "porridge" thrown around more than once, followed by the shaking of heads.

" _Doruchak_ mean eat," one of them said, haltingly. "Ah...morning eat. Eat in morning."

Brea's entire countenance seemed to brighten with understanding.

"Breakfast!" She turned, clearly excited by her discovery. "It means breakfast, Seladon!"

The Podlings chattered amongst themselves, repeating the word, "breakfast." Seladon smiled tight-lipped at her sister, and nodded indulgently.

After that day, Brea took every chance she had to speak with the Podling servants, an activity which Seladon saw no point in, yet she could hardly fault her sister for craving _some_ form of amusement. The conversations were mostly uninteresting to listen to, jumbled as they were with a mixture of words and mimery; though her ears admittedly twitched in interest to hear Brea speak of her brief stay with the Order of Lesser Service, which had apparently involved a deterge of the Ha'rar Podlings.

Throughout it all, the one designated their leader stood by the door, its beady eyes watching Seladon hawkishly. It was as though it could read her mind, seeing her plans for an eventual escape. Seladon bore its scrutiny with a cool indifference—it could never compare to the judging eyes of the court, and she was assured in her knowledge that there was nothing it could do to stop her, even if she was planning to barrel past it in a wild bid for freedom.

Not that she was—at least, not yet. She had not told Brea of her discovery, of the outside air she had felt down a side corridor on her way to the Emperor's chamber. She did not want to enact a half-formed plan; she wanted to know for certain that the route she had scoped out would truly lead them to freedom, and not simply to a dead end and certain capture. The consequences for failure in this matter were too dire to bear thinking about.

So it was a blessing and a curse alike when the opportunity for further surveyance presented itself. A week on and there was once again only one bowl brought to them for dinner, another Podling tugging at her sleeve (" _dodyi, dodyi_ "). As before Seladon was allowed to walk the path to the Emperor's chamber on her own, and when she found her previous landmarks she dashed down the corridor until she once again felt the cool air of freedom. Around a corner, and the dark of the Castle broke into the waning light of dusk: a balcony, its way open and unbarred to the world beyond.

 _'Soon,'_ she thought later, glad that the Emperor had her face-down so he would not see the triumph in her expression. _'Soon we will escape this place; soon we will **fly**.'_

\---

She should have known it would not be that simple.

As before, they sat together on the bed in uncomfortable silence, Seladon turned away with head bowed while Brea smeared ointment on the fresh cuts and bruises. Seladon's Threader was perched on her bare shoulder, its usual spot; not so usual was the second Threader, which typically kept to Brea's side, now nestled in Seladon's hands instead. It alternated between stroking its spindly limbs between her fingers and rubbing its head against her palms—actions similar to her Friend's comforting gestures, yet with a strange touch which, had she not known better, Seladon might even have thought to be Gelfling-like.

When Brea was finished, and the pot's lid scraped into place, Seladon eased her gown back over her head, apologising quietly to the Threaders as the action forced them both to abandon their positions. She maneuvered her wings through the slits in the back, letting them flutter freely in anticipation. And when she was done she turned to her sister, ducking her head in an attempt to catch her down-turned gaze. "We're going to escape."

When Brea looked up, the smile she gave Seladon was soft and sad. "I know."

"No," Seladon pressed, and now she reached for her sister's hands, covering them with her own over the pot's lid. "I have found a way to the outside. If we run to it when they bring our morning meal, we can escape this awful place."

The route she showed through dreamfast, near and straight enough that they could cover the distance before an alarm was raised, provided they ran. <>There are no barriers or shielding on the balcony, she explained, _and it faces the Endless Forest. We'll fly directly to the tree line, and once we are in the forest proper we can evade pursuit easily._ The Skeksis were large and hulking, encumbered by heavy robes and drapery; they would be clumsy in the trees, and a smaller pair in flight would be able to escape them.

 _I don't know what supplies we can take from here—the blankets, perhaps. But if we can make it to Stone-In-The-Wood by nightfall, there must be something still left behind there. And we can use the Arathim to scout ahead, and then to find your companions._ She squeezed the hands beneath her own, the hands which had gone still as a morning frost.

"It's nearly over, Brea," she said, aloud this time. "We are nearly free of these monsters."

At some point while Seladon was talking, Brea had dropped her gaze back to the pot in her lap, their hands together atop its lid. One of hers slipped free, fingers seeking the angry finger marks at Seladon's wrist, already purpling into a bruise, where they peeked from the cuff of her gown.

"Seladon," she began, then seemed to reconsider. Abruptly she pulled away, clutching the pot to her front as she rose and began to pace. Seladon remained seated, following her path back and forth with her eyes—fighting down the anxious knot suddenly twisting in her stomach.

"Seladon," Brea tried again, and stopped her pacing mid-stride, pivoting sharply to face her, "if you have a way out—you should take it. As soon as you can. You cannot stay here; you are needed elsewhere, the people need their All-Maudra. And," her eyes fell aside, her expression twisting, "you have to get away from... _him_."

The look on her face was almost pained, and Seladon could all too easily imagine what she must have been seeing: marks and bruises, claws and teeth, a back that must surely be more scar than flesh by now. Seladon let out a careful breath, pushing away the thought of such things with a dogged determination.

"Then it is decided," she said, and rose herself. The Threaders followed her from the bed, hopping to the floor and scuttling aside as she crossed to Brea.

"If you are ready," she continued, "we can go in the morning, when they bring breakfast." Brea's ears dipped, and her head seemed to sink into her shoulders. "Or...not?" Seladon stepped back, frowning in confusion. "Do you think we should wait longer? Or is there something else..."

A terrible thought occurred to her, and she seized Brea by the shoulders, turning her around despite her surprised cry. She took her sister's wings gently in hand, running her fingers over the stems and petals in careful scrutiny, searching for any damage to the chitin. Surely she had not been so inattentive as to miss such a grievous injury?

"No, Seladon," Brea turned back, twisting her wings out of Seladon's grip, "my wings are fine. That isn't the problem."

"Then what is?" Seladon fought down the urge to grab for her again, nails digging sharply into her palms with the effort of keeping her hands at her sides. "Are you frightened? Brea, you know I will not allow any harm to come to you!"

 _'Does she, though?'_ an insidious part of her mind spoke up. _'Were you not her first betrayer? Was it not you who called her traitor, condemning your own family to a terrible fate before your mother had even gone cold?'_

"It's not **my** ability to fly that's the problem," Brea responded, unaware of Seladon's inner strife ( _'she did not confirm your assurances,'_ the voice whispered). The pot was still in her hands, and she turned the lid back and forth—an anxious movement, one that seemed to have replaced her old habits in the absence of her pen. A thousand questions surged in Seladon's mind ( _'is it my ability?'_ , _'is it the Threaders'?'_ , _'who else is there to consider?'_ ), but before she could voice any of them Brea straightened her shoulders, and her chin lifted in a display of petulant determination (so familiar, so beloved, so **irksome** ).

"The Podlings will not be able to fly with us," she said, steadily. "And we cannot just leave them here. I **won't**."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh...this stay-home-in-isolation crap has not been doing my mental state any favours, to say nothing of the shit that happened shortly beforehand. Um. The next chapter might be just as slow-coming as this one was.

At first Seladon thought she must have misheard.

"No," she agreed, "the Podlings _cannot_ fly with us." When had the Podlings ever been part of the plan, beyond being an obstacle to push past? Seladon herself had not mentioned them, had never even thought to. That Brea did so now was a strange turn, and her confusion (her sheer **bafflement** ) must have shown on her face, because Brea's own expression dropped from tense determination to a caged look of defensiveness.

"I will not leave without them," she repeated herself—and again Seladon doubted her own ears, the same way twice now.

"You will," she said; then, before Brea could protest, "you cannot bring along every creature you come across. That's a childling's fancy."

Brea's mouth fell open at her words—not in surprise, but in something closer to outrage. She made a sound like a choked laugh, and Seladon saw her hands clench white-knuckled around the pot.

"I am not asking to bring along _every creature_ ," she bit out, throwing back Seladon's own words like something distasteful, "I'm saying I will not abandon these few Podlings if I have the chance to save them."

The tone of her voice was full of the impudent stubbornness she should have outgrown trine ago. It reminded Seladon of a day when they were young, and Mother had brought them to survey the Landstrider herds. Brea had attached herself to a calf, begging to take it back to the Citadel with them. She had thrown a tantrum when Mother had prised it from her arms, much like she looked ready to throw one now.

"It makes no difference," she tried again. "The Podlings are not our concern—"

"Not _your_ concern, perhaps—"

"No, **not** my concern," Seladon agreed, "my plan is for us alone. Or would you have us stay here indefinitely, on the mere _hope_ for another chance, simply so you can continue to indulge in your latest curiosity?"

There was an accusation in her tone, not there by design yet she let it stand nonetheless. As much as she wanted (really, _truly_ ) to rescue Brea from this place—so too did she want to rescue herself. It was a selfish thing, but Seladon felt it all the same, in the same part of her heart that had once contemplated throwing herself from the window above the Emperor's bed to end her own life before he could lay another hand upon her. She was not sure how much more of this she could endure, and she knew that Brea knew it, for she flinched back in a guilty cower, lowering her eyes in shame.

"I told you to leave if you can," she half-mumbled, the unmistakable edge of remorse around the words, "and I meant it. I am not asking you to stay here. I wouldn't; you _can't_." When she looked back at Seladon, the defiance in her eyes was tempered, driven to the edges by desperation. "I speak only for myself, Seladon—I will remain here."

 _'Not for long you won't.'_ Brea's purpose was to serve as collateral, to keep Seladon in line. Leaving her behind was not an option; if Seladon ran, the Skeksis would have no further use for her sister. She would be killed within the week, within the _day_ , given back to the Scientist to finish what Aughra had interrupted. Or else—

Or else the Emperor might decide she _did_ have a purpose to serve, same as he had decided for Seladon herself. And that thought was too terrible to pursue.

"If you will not fly, you will not make it out of here," she pushed, trying to shake away the gruesome images. "There is no other way out of the Castle; you've no other means of escape."

"Yes I have!" Brea shot back. "Tavra was going to get me out through the catacombs. If we can get back down there, I can remember the way she showed me!"

That declaration gave Seladon pause. While her own plan was sounder—the window nearer, the path more direct—there was no denying that the catacombs were also a viable option. After all, it had seemed Tavra (and oh, her heart still wrenched, as it likely always would at the thought of her sister) had intended to guide Seladon back that same way to join up with Brea. Tavra had always been tactical; she would not have assumed the Skeksis would uphold their promise to allow them to leave peacefully. If she truly had intended for them all to escape the same way, she would have accounted for that potential conflict. If only they could speak with her, learn what she had planned...

But Tavra would never leave the Castle. Even now, so far as Seladon knew, her body remained in the shadow of its deepest levels, returned to Thra beneath its darkest depths. It was on Seladon, as it should have always been, to rescue them. That meant planning, and plotting; foreseeing every possible obstacle. Like the land tenancy agreements: accounting for compensation in event of disaster, determine what merited damages, whose responsibility lay where. Find the problems, address them, and assign a solution, all before they ever occurred. _'That is what we need, now.'_

Aloud she said, "so you remember the way from here?"

At that Brea visibly faltered. "Well," she admitted, "no. I could not see much, other than the General's back. But the Podlings will know! They deliver food throughout the entire Castle; they know every inch of it! If we ask for their help—"

"No." Seladon folded her arms, mentally sighing to herself. _'I should have known.'_ "There is too much risk. The catacombs are farther away, with more opportunity to be caught if we don't already have a path. And," something more occurred to her, an observation from their dreamfast, "wasn't the entrance just outside the Scientist's laboratory? Brea, that is practically suicide!"

"Not if the Podlings help us!" Brea's words were pleading, _begging_ Seladon to see things with her eyes. "And they **will** , they want out as much as we do! If we ask them—"

"We cannot know they will not immediately go to the Skeksis—"

"Why would they?! The Skeksis _hurt_ them! Didn't you see Gyrd's hand?"

"Who?" Now attention was called to it, Seladon _did_ recall that one of the Podlings had had its hand wrapped in a bandage that morning, what she had assumed was some work injury. "It doesn't matter. The fact that they've not left, despite being able to move freely throughout the Castle—"

"They _can't_ leave! They don't think they have anywhere to go! And Bruna—"

"Who is Bruna?"

"—they have her daughter, Seladon!" Brea barreled on without acknowledging any of her sister's interjections, raising her voice over them. "Gyrd told me; her name is Ydra, she's one of the maids. Bruna has not even seen her since the guards were killed!"

"Who. Is. Bruna?!"

" **The one with the key**!"

They both were shouting now, vehemently and without regard for caution. It was a position as familiar to Seladon as comforting Brea had been, if not moreso—more recent, more raw, more of what they had become to one another as the trine had dragged on.

"Enough!" Seladon struck an arm through the air, as though delivering a blow. "Your 'plan' is as childish as it is futile! You don't understand what will happen if we are caught, Brea! The Lords—"

Brea gave a mad little laugh.

"Oh, _I_ don't understand?!" she asked, her tone high and bordering on hysteria. "I showed you what happened to me! I showed you how they strapped me down, and made me look at, at..." Her eyes squeezed shut, as though that could push back the images; she raised one of her hands to grind the heel against her closed lids, sucking in breath in a way Seladon recognised as an attempt to calm herself. _'If only it could bring her some sense as well.'_

"I will not look upon the Crystal again. I will die first!"

"You _will_ die if you stay here! They will **kill** you!" _'Or worse.'_ "That is why I can't leave you behind! Why are you being so difficult?!"

" _I'm_ being—?!"

"Yes, **you**! If you would just—"

"I already told you—"

"Would you **shut up** and _listen_ to what I'm—"

" **You** listen—"

Seladon screamed—not in pain, or fear, or anguish, but in _rage_ , raw and unhinged. The sound was terrible enough that Brea stumbled back in alarm, the pot slipping from her hands to shatter on the floor, ointment flying in oily globs as she was stunned into dumb silence. _'Good,'_ Seladon thought, bitterly, _'maybe now she'll **listen**.'_

"You know _nothing_ ," she hissed, her anger boiling like madness inside her—anger at Brea for being so argumentative, at Mother for indulging her childishness as long as she had; at the sheer impossibility and unfairness of what their lives had become. "You think you have seen what the Skeksis are capable of?! You think death is the worst fate they can condemn you to?! Here," and she lashed forward, "let me **show** you what they've _already done_!"

Brea's hand was stiff when she grabbed it, locking their fingers together in a vice-like grip. Seladon ignored her protests, holding fast to those wriggling fingers as she tried to wrench them free. Then she threw open the doors of her mind, and _pushed_.

Trough the brume of dreamfast, Seladon was dimly aware of someone screaming—herself or Brea, or both, or neither. She lay upon the Emperor's bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling while he violated her with claws teeth and tongue; the map sprawled in front of her, another rent in its surface, another clan doomed; the glass vial shattered upon the floor while the taste of Gelfling trickled down her throat like poison. Other tastes, other feelings, the sickening curdle of something rotted and turned overwhelming her senses until there was nothing else left.

 _ **This** is what I am taking you from,_ she spoke over the images, over her own screams (or Brea's, or no one's). _And I will drag you to freedom by the hair if I have to!_

Movement from her periphery, outside f the dreamfast darting quick and frantic, and something latched on to Seladon's cheek, tendrils delving in even as she tried to push them out. It was not her Friend, she knew at once; yet it was familiar all the same, even as she flailed wildly at its invasion, _get off me, **no** —_

 _"Seladon!"_ A voice rang in her mind, as familiar as the presence, beloved, impossible, **how**?! _"Seladon, stop! Let go of her!"_

She did let go, though the action did not feel like her own will. Released from the dreamfast Brea fell back, landing in a tearful heap amidst the mess of pottery shards and ointment at the same moment the Threader removed itself from Seladon, dropping equally heavy to the stones.

The screaming had stopped, if it had ever been to begin with. Now the room was filled only with the heavy, straining breaths of both sisters, and in hearing the quaver in her own Seladon realised she was shaking. On the floor, Brea's eyes were clinchd shut, her mouth hanging open in a sob, yet no sound came out. It was as though it was lodged in her throat, bound there by things she should never have had to witness.

"Why," she croaked at length, a tortured rasp to her voice. _'Perhaps the screams were hers, after all.'_ "Why would you show me that?"

"Because you needed to see it." The tremble in Seladon's breath crept into her words, however hard she tried to keep them steady. "This is not a childling's tale, Brea; there are no happy endings here. There is only survival: yours and mine."

The noise Brea made could have been a laugh, if it hadn't been so raw. One of her hands fluttered over her mouth as though it could catch the sound, stuff it back down her throat and swallow it whole. She shook her head once, twice; she kept her face turned away from her sister.

"That's horrible," she said like a curse. " _You're_ horrible."

And to that, Seladon had no response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot to say about this chapter. Probably more than anyone wants to read, so I'll try to keep it brief (or not, I realise as I finish writing this).
> 
> It's made very obvious that Gelfling don't see Podlings as equals. Nor do they have many proper interactions; the state of their language gap, where Podlings know enough Gelfling words to communicate with those they serve whereas the majority of Gelfling know little to no Podling, is evidence enough that they are kept rigidly segregated in a served-to-serving relationship. The Podlings are seen like simple children at best, and like animals at worst; they're not seen as being intelligent or sophisticated, and must be minded and tended to by their betters (hence stuff like the deterge).
> 
> Seladon and Brea, as the noblest of noble nobility, both started in the same place in how they regard Podlings. Brea, however, has spent time with Hup (more than two months in this story, though I know the canon is shorter); she is also more amenable to having an open mind, being a scholar.
> 
> Seladon, on the other hand, was not only raised to be more rigid in upholding traditions and cultural norms, she has not had any great interactions with Podlings beyond seeing them as accessories to her imprisonment (being trusted with a key to her room, and yet doing nothing to help her). To top it all off, Seladon here has been through some serious shit these past few months, most (if not all) of it involving the complete upheaval of everything she knew, thus making her _extremely_ resistant to anything more of her past life being challenged.
> 
> Simply put: Seladon's blatant racism is something she was taught, and something she _will_ ultimately unlearn. Enduring trauma does not magically cure a person of all their flaws; that will still take time. And while it might not happen in the main story, I have planned some post-story one-shots that...well. That will come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after an argument brings...another argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone.
> 
> Let's cut to the chase: the current world situation is causing me crazy amounts of stress and making my depression flare up, and when I'm in a not-great mental state my will and ability to write is one of the first things to go, along with pretty much any semblance of confidence.
> 
> As such, expect long breaks between chapters for the foreseeable future. I thank you all for your patience, and especially those who have offered encouragement during this difficult time.
> 
> All of you stay safe and take care of yourselves, alright? ♥

The difficulty of picking a fight with one's fellow prisoner, was that there was nowhere to go once the words had stopped flying.

Brea had not permitted Seladon to help her to her feet, and had slapped her hands away when she tried. She said no further words, even when commanded to speak, responding only in a glare Seladon could not pinpoint, whether it be hatred or pity. And when they finally settled for the night Brea lay stubbornly on the floor, curled into the farthest corner from the bed she could manage—ignoring all of her sister's calls for reason, huffing at all of her demands. Eventually Seladon was forced to accept defeat, lying with her back to the room in anticipation of what would no doubt be a restless night.

 _'She will understand eventually,'_ she told herself, staring through the darkness at the wall. _'She **has** to.'_

When a tentative touch brushed Seladon's hip she lashed out on instinct, but her Friend knew by now to dodge her attack and slip around to her front, settling in its usual spot against her chest. She cupped it there, stroking her thumb along the length of its limbs, listening to it croon and chitter soothingly.

_'But when has Brea ever understood anything?'_

\---

Seladon's sleep was as agitated as she had imagined, wrought with nightmares she remembered only from the terror that seized her like a hungry Rakkida in its jaws, and the gentle scratch of her Threader at her cheek to wake her from it. In those moments of consciousness she heard no sound from Brea's corner, be it shifting in sleep or gentle snores, or even an expression of concern.

 _'Of course she would not be concerned,'_ she thought bitterly in one such moment. _'No doubt she believes this is nothing more than I deserve.'_

Without even her own sleep cycle to judge the time, there was no way of knowing when morning arrived. Instead Seladon merely decided to wake (if one could call it that, having hardly slept) when she could no longer stand to lie prone, and as her feet touched the floor she heard Brea stirring as well in her corner. By the time she had fumbled her way through lighting the lamp in the dark, her sister was already upright and turned pointedly (and unsurprisingly) away from her.

 _'So I am still to be ignored.'_ There was a dark shape on Brea's shoulder, and squinting by lamplight Seladon recognised the second Threader tucked into the crook of her neck. She could see the glint of its eyes watching her, and remembered how it had attached itself the night before—the voice she thought she had heard, thought she **knew**.

 _'I was mistaken,'_ she had already decided. _'I imagined what I wanted to hear, and nothing more.'_ It was the only explanation.

The Threaders heard the cart before Seladon did, both hopping to the floor from their respective perches and skittering away into the cracks moments before its rickety screeching met her ears. There was the sound of a key being fumbled into the lock, and Seladon could feel Brea's eyes upon her; wondered, idly, if they were going to burn a hole right through to her skull.

" _Doruchak_!" One of the Podlings announced as they entered, its arms thrown wide in an exaggerated display. One of its hands was bandaged, and Seladon remembered Brea mentioning it the night before (a name, she'd given it a name, but Seladon couldn't remember). It turned to Brea expectantly, and the look on its face faltered when it saw her sitting sullenly in the corner; for a moment it seemed like it would go to her, but a sharp rap on its unbandaged hand from their leader ( _Bruna_ , Seladon remembered that name at least) and it immediately withdrew, grabbing one of the breakfast trays in silence.

While the Podlings bustled with their burden, Seladon felt her eyes drawn inexorably back toward the door. It stood open just a crack, enough that she could see a glimpse of the corridor beyond; only Bruna stood between her and freedom, and the Podling barely came up to Seladon's hip.

It would be so easy just to run, to grab Brea and drag her into the hall. Would her sister fight? It was likely she would at first, and the Podlings would try to stop them, and the noise would raise an alarm, but Brea was smart enough to know once that happened that there was no way to move but forward. Such an explosive start might give them less time to reach the balcony, but surely they could still make it quickly enough.

Could they afford to take that risk?

_'Can we afford **not** to?'_

One of the Podlings set Seladon's breakfast tray at her bedside, and she turned from the door to look at that instead. The contents appeared at first to be same as always—lukewarm porridge and a heel of day-old bread—but when she looked closer, she realised that there were chunks of peachberry mixed into the porridge; she glanced toward Brea's tray, and though it was difficult to tell from this distance, her portion appeared to have the same. Was it another alteration to their diet ordered by the Emperor? It had to be, though Seladon recalled the Lords having no love for the fruit, expressing disgust at even its smell—

The _screech_ of the cart's wheels drew her attention back to the door. The Podlings were beginning their shuffle back into the corridor, the one called Bruna still watching Seladon with sharp eyes—an attention she could only assume was a dare, as if it could do anything to stop an escape. Seladon scoffed, and turned her head loftily away; the door closed, the key grinding in the lock once more, and then the rickety cart went screeching and squealing into the Castle, echoes growing distant as they retreated.

"You didn't leave."

They were the first words Brea had spoken since waking, and when Seladon turned she found her sister watching her, brow furrowed in concern.

"I am only alive for the Emperor's amusement," she responded curtly. "And _you_ are only alive to keep me in line. If I leave alone, the Skeksis will kill you."

"And if we both leave, they will kill the Podlings." Seladon saw no reason why they would, but Brea pressed on before she could interject, "I know you do not care about them, but I **do**. They have lives, same as you and I; why should ours be worth more than theirs?"

Seladon sucked in a breath; held it while she mentally counted to five. Let it out in a heavy sigh. "Brea, please—just eat."

Brea did not eat, choosing instead merely to poke and prod at her breakfast like a dour childling. Still, the result was her silence, sullen though it was, and Seladon turned her attention to her own portion. She took a few bites, noting immediately how the peachberry gave sweetness and flavour to the otherwise bland meal, and closed her eyes in appreciation while she swallowed. It was a comfort, albeit a small one, and so unlike anything she could imagine the Emperor giving her that she found herself doubting her resolve that the touch was his doing. But if not him, then who?

She ate some more, letting her thoughts stew in her mind. In the corner Brea still hadn't started on her own, and Seladon sighed heavily, bracing herself for the inevitability of another argument.

_'Best to get it over with, I suppose.'_

"Suppose we _do_ follow your plan," she posited aloud, and Brea's ears peaked in her direction. "Suppose we take along your Podlings—have you considered what comes next?"

Brea continued to push her spoon around her bowl, moving the porridge in idle, sloppy patterns. "Then we escape through the catacombs."

" **No**." Seladon sighed, questioning her own logic at bothering to breach the subject again, inevitability be hanged—as though the results would be any different on a second pass. "You have already said that they have connections here in the Castle, other servants. If they truly are as eager to escape as you claim," and privately Seladon still found that doubtful, "do you believe they will leave those others behind?

"And then those others, _they_ will have fellows to bring along. And their fellows will have fellows, and so on until we are trying to slip beneath the Lords' notice with the entirety of the Castle staff!" Seladon scooped another spoonful of her breakfast, though this one she did not move to her mouth yet. "As it stands, the two of us stand a fair chance of escaping this place; we have no such chance with a rabble of Podlings tagging at our heels."

She watched as Brea's head sunk lower between her shoulders, her ears nearly flat against her skull, and Seladon's heart wrenched even as she balked at Brea's childishness. Her sweet sister, her head full of stories of romance and adventure—it hurt her truly, to shatter that illusion. "I am sorry," and she was, "but sometimes, there are no easy answers; sometimes, a sacrifice has to be made."

Her sister's gaze hardened, and she stabbed her utensil into the porridge like a hunter's spear into a Fizzgig. "Like you agreed to sacrifice the other clans?"

The spoon fell from Seladon's hand with a clatter, sending slop spattering across the stone. Brea jumped at the noise, her eyes flying wide, and Seladon bent quickly to retrieve it—eager for the chance to avoid her sister's gaze, the judgement and condemnation she knew must be there.

"Yes," she answered, though the words were so quiet she was not sure Brea could even hear them, "exactly like that."

She righted herself, though she did not look back to Brea. Instead she went about cleaning the spoon as best she could on the bedlinens. Her fringe fell across her eyes, and she swept it away absentmindedly, or tried to; it had grown so long, she could nearly tuck it back behind her ears, now. Through its curtain she saw Brea fidgeting, still facing her, though she could not do more than guess at her expression from this angle.

"...I'm sorry," Brea said at length. "I know you did not do that willingly, I... _saw_ it." Her voice shook, and Seladon glanced briefly up to see her shudder, eyes closed in horror. "I should not have said that, Seladon, I'm so sorry."

Seladon looked back down, at the spoon she still held. The porridge had gathered seemingly every speck of dirt and dust on the floor, and its viscosity was making it stick stubbornly to the surface, no matter how she wiped at it.

"But I _was_ willing." She laid her spoon—dirtied beyond salvage—beside her half-empty bowl, and pushed the tray away. "Not in the times I showed you; before that. When I first came to the Castle, to beg mercy for the Stonewood clan."

There was no response from Brea's corner as she continued. "I tried to barter with the Skeksis, to spare their lives. When that failed, I offered the traitors; and when they admitted their crimes to me, I..."

_"Seven Gelfling from each clan."_

"I offered volunteers, for them to...drain." It was hard to admit the truth to Brea, as it had been to admit it to Tavra. "I was willing to let them continue with their crimes, in exchange for _peace_." She laughed as she said the word, for it was a laughable concept. "And when the Emperor refused even that, I offered all Gelfling, every last one, if he would agree to spare you and Tavra."

That **did** elicit a reaction: a sharp gasp from Brea's corner, a noticeable stiffening in Seladon's periphery. She wanted now more than ever to curl in on herself, twist into the smallest shape possible until she vanished away into nothing.

Slowly, Brea unfolded from her corner, rising to stand. Her feet padded softly against the floor as she crossed to Seladon, stopping when her skirts fluttered into full view of her down-turned gaze. She stood there a moment, unmoving; then her arm extended, her hand holding her own spoon: caked in a layer of porridge, but otherwise unused, un-dirtied, _clean_. She presented it in silent offering, and Seladon finally looked her full in the face, more in surprise than because of any courage.

Her sister's eyes were wet with tears, and with a start Seladon recognised the expression. It was the same one Brea had worn in their mother's solar, kneeling together over her still-warm body: a look of horror and despair, denial and disbelief. And beneath it all, a plea for Seladon to come to her, a raw need for her sister to be on her side.

(A plea Seladon had denied.)

"I am the All-Maudra, leader of the Gelfling." Strange, how once more the words had begun to feel like lies on her tongue. "I am the one who must make the hard choices. I take no pleasure in sacrifice, but to protect our own, a line must be drawn. Where would you have us draw that line, for who we save?"

Brea looked down at her with that ever-mournful gaze. "We draw it," she answered softly, "at the ones we _can_."

The spoon was still extended, waiting for an answer. Seladon hesitated, her insides churning with unease. Tentatively, she reached for it, to accept or knock it away.

The lamp beside them exploded into blue flame.


End file.
